Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

He seemed genuinely upset that I didn’t appreciate his genius. Right about then I wished he’d just stuck his knife in the guy. I went into the living room and came back with Rollo’s ugly green drapes. I spread them on the kitchen floor and motioned for Blade to help me lift Rollo.

Blade made a sick face. “But he’s a mess.”

“You dumb shit. Everybody in the neighborhood heard that Boston cream go off. Somebody’s called the cops for sure. Now shut up and help me wrap Rollo up in the drapes.”

The blood was already soaking through the drapes when we stashed the corpse in the trunk of the Chrysler. I threw the doughnut box in on top of the body. Blade looked like he’d swallowed a bug the whole time. I didn’t see how he made it in this business. I guess everyone has his limit. The police sirens grew in the distance as we pulled out of Rollo’s neighborhood.

We zig-zagged around for about twenty minutes before I finally pulled into an Exxon station and told Blade to wait in the car while I made a phone call.

“Who’re you calling?” asked Blade.

“Just wait here.”

Stan was my boss. Blade’s too. We worked for him, but he rented us out freelance whenever he smelled a buck. That’s when we earned the real cash. I’d been with him for years and never had any reason to question his judgment until now, so I was a bit relieved when he finally picked up the phone after thirteen rings.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” I said.

“You in a jam?”

“Right.”

“Tell me.”

I spilled out the story, Stan snickering the whole time on the other end of the line.

“I don’t see what’s so damn funny.”

“Just you with that bozo, Sanchez,” Stan said. “How’d you guys get paired up in the first place?” Like he had nothing to do with it.

“Are you going to help or not?”

“You stay put,” said Stan. “I’ll call you back in ten.”

I gave him the number to the phone booth, then hung up just as Blade came and knocked on the glass.

“What now?”

“We wait,” I said. “If you want to be useful, go into the gas station and get us some coffee.”

Blade left, then returned and handed me a Styrofoam cup about the size of a gnat’s jock. “You couldn’t spring for a large?”

“It’s just the way you like it,” said Blade. “Lots of cream and sugar.”

“Why the hell would you say that? You’ve never gotten coffee for me before in your life.”

“I thought you’d like cream and sugar.”

“Next time, black.” I poured it on the ground.

Blade wrinkled up his face at me like some little kid and stood pouting next to the rental. He folded his arms across his chest and kept an eye on traffic. My hands balled into fists just looking at him. Guys like Blade were why this business wasn’t what it used to be.

I dropped in another thirty-five cents and dialed my mother’s number in Winter Park. She answered on the third ring.

“Charlie, don’t tell me you’re calling to postpone again.”

“Sorry, Ma. I got tangled up.”

“You work too hard.”

“Maybe.”

“When can we expect you? You know Danny really would like to see you.”

“I know. I want to see you too. And Danny.”

Ma lowered her voice gravely. “I can’t do a thing with him, Charlie. If your father were still alive-”

“Danny’s a big boy now.”

“But you’ll talk to him?”

“Sure, Ma. I have to go. I’ll call and let you know when I’m coming down.”

I hated to put Ma off like that, but business was business. My little brother Danny would keep for a while. He was a good kid. He wouldn’t push Ma too far.

I’d just about talked myself into crossing the street for another cup of coffee when the phone rang. I picked it up.

“Yeah?”

“Rollo’s ex-wife lives in Sanford.” Stan’s voice. “She can identify him.”

“We don’t need her to identify him. We need the guy who’s paying us to identify him.”

“Do what I say. You put the grab on her and take her to meet Beggar’s boys. If she sticks up for you that should be good enough.”

“If you say so.”

This deal was going down the tubes quick. I was used to a certain level of professionalism. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I preferred to work alone. Or maybe I just didn’t like people.

I pulled the car off the turnpike and onto I-4, pointing it toward Sanford. We rode through the town in silence, Blade getting fidgety because he hadn’t had a cigarette in a while. Rollo’s ex-wife had an acre of land and a ranch-style house out by the regional airport. We turned down her long driveway and parked close to the house. The shrubs out front were overgrown. Big oaks kept the house in constant shade.

“I hope she don’t have dogs,” said Blade, scanning the yard. “I hate it when they have dogs.”

“I’ll go talk to her,” I told him. “You stay here and keep an eye peeled for dogs.”

I knocked, and she answered. Stan had told me that the former Mrs. Kramer’s name was Marcie, thirty-four years young. My eyes took a quick trip up and down her body. She was casual in blue jeans, a Hilton Head T-shirt, and open-toed sandals. She wore her red hair short like a boy’s, and her breasts knocked around heavy and braless under her shirt. Her skin was smooth and bright. It was only around her brown eyes you could tell she had some miles on her. Not so pretty that I felt like a troll standing next to her, but pretty.

I said, “Miss Kramer, I’m Charlie Swift. I don’t know how to say this, but Rollo is dead.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes.”

She took me in with those eyes, looked past me to Blade waiting in the car, nodded slowly, her eyes lighting on me again. “You’re not police.”

“No.”

“You killed him and now you want something from me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Her penetrating brown eyes made it pointless and silly to lie.

She nodded, raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Knowing Rollo, I thought he’d get it sooner or later. What is it you think I can do for you?”

I was tired from the drive and tired of Blade’s company. I told her I had a proposition for her, and I sent Blade into town with a twenty-dollar bill and instructions to bring back Chinese food for three. He shot me an evil look before climbing behind the wheel of the Chrysler.

Usually, I’d have slapped some duct tape over her mouth and shoved her in the backseat of the car, but there was some quality about Marcie I didn’t want to spoil. She had that subtle characteristic which made her seem good without making me seem clumsy or crude. She wasn’t afraid, but she was careful, and I suspected she knew the ropes from being kicked around a lot. Anyhow, I thought she was tough enough to deserve a break, or maybe I just wanted to talk to a pretty woman. Either way, I was glad when she asked me in.

She pulled the tabs on two cans of Schlitz, and I sat across from her at her drab Formica-covered table in her dim little kitchen. I told her the story, and she knew how to listen, asking the right questions in the right places.

“I really expected to hear he was dead before this,” said Marcie. “The kind of people he ran around with, you know? Anyway, I wished him dead a couple times myself. I haven’t seen an alimony payment in nineteen months.”

“I might be able to help you with some money, if you’ll help us.”

She smiled. “I’d have killed the little prick myself if I’d have known he was worth anything dead.”

There’d only been a trace of anger in that remark. Mostly, she was being practical, just another on a list of people who’d figured out the world was better off without Rollo Kramer. That toughness again, but I sensed deep down she had the ability to be soft if she wanted. Or maybe that was just something I wanted to think. Anyhow, I liked her.